It was the attitude of a man trying to convince himself. There was one reason why he might be supposed to wish his friend out of the way, but he dared not even shape the thought. There was one person who might guess, and it was she whose lips he hoped to seal. A quick dread came to him. Suppose the police had already gone to her. The thought stung him to action. He had not even removed his hat and coat since his return from Grosvenor Gardens. He made his way to the street and walked briskly along until he sighted a taxicab. "507 Berkeley Square," he told the driver. It was a surprised footman who opened the door of the Duke of Burghley's house. Fairfield, at the man's look of astonishment, remembered that he was unshaven, and that his clothes had been thrown on haphazard. It was a queer thought to intrude at such a time. But he was usually a scrupulously dressed man, and the triviality worried him. "Lady Eileen Meredith. I must see her at once," he said peremptorily. "Don't stand staring at me, man. You know me." The footman coughed apologetically. "Yes, Sir Ralph. Lady Eileen is not up yet. If it is important I can get a maid to call her. Shall I tell his Grace?" "No. It is of the utmost importance that I see her personally immediately." Sir Ralph breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered into the cool morning room and the door closed behind him. At all events, the police had not seen her yet. He was first. That meant he would have to break the news to her. How would she take it? "The poor little girl!" he muttered to himself. And then the door clicked. Eileen Meredith stood there, a pink dressing-gown enveloping her graceful figure from shoulders to feet. There was questioning wonder in her grey eyes as she extended her hand, but no alarm. He almost wished there was. It would have made things easier. "You, Sir Ralph?" she cried. "What has brought you here so early? Has Bob repented of his bargain and sent you to call it off at the last moment?" The man fumbled for words. Now that he was face to face with her the phrase he had so laboriously worked out to lead up to the news had deserted him. He pushed a chair towards her. "Er--won't you sit down?" he said awkwardly. He was striving for an opening. Both words and tone called the girl's direct attention to the haggard face, the feverish eyes. Her fears were alight on the instant. She regarded him with parted lips and gripped his arm impulsively. "Something has happened!" she cried apprehensively. "Why do you look like that? What is it?" Her voice rose and she tried to shake the silent man. "Answer--why don't you answer? Is he ill--dead?" Sir Ralph choked over his reply. "He was killed last night--murdered."